My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.

779

The Service without Hope—
Is tenderest, I think—
Because ’tis unsustained
By stint—Rewarded Work—

Has impetus of Gain—
And impetus of Goal—
There is no Diligence like that
That knows not an Until—

lost in you ...

i'm not a poet ...
even not trying to be ...
i'm just only feel ...
what i see...
not poet i am ...
and not wish to be ..
only i'm writing you ...
as how i feel ...

because of you ...
and how i do feel ...
since i see you ...
i hold my pen ...
between my fingers ...
to write how my heart feels ...
how it's beats runs ...
dancing happily ...
as a morning's butterflies ...
enjoying kisses it's rose ...
to give it , it's love ...
to take also the love ..
with a honey only from it ...
as me sweetheart..
and because of you ...
with every moment ...
i'm writing my words ...
sending my word's love ...
for no one ...
and no one can get it ...
only you ...
to get back the love from you ...
as i sent for you ..
my only sweetheart ...

babe mine ...
i'm not a writer ...
not a poet ...
i'm just writing for you ..
writing what i feel about you ...
feel so lost ...
so deep in you ...
that's why i do write ...
and will always do ...
will be your poet ...
to write you ...
and to send you...
how i always feel ...
about you ...

love you my sweet angel ...


hazem al ...

(Isaiah, ix. 15-20)

Hear what God the Lord hath spoken,
"O my people, faint and few,
Comfortless, afflicted, broken,
Fair abodes I build for you.
Thorns of heartfelt tribulation
Shall no more perplex your ways;
You shall name your walls, Salvation,
And your gates shall all be Praise.

"There, like streams that feed the garden,
Pleasures without end shall flow,
For the Lord, your faith rewarding,
All His bounty shall bestow;
Still in undisturb'd possession
Peace and righteousness shall reign;
Never shall you feel oppression,
Hear the voice of war again.

"Ye no more your suns descending,
Waning moons no more shall see;
But your griefs forever ending,
Find eternal noon in me:
God shall rise, and shining o'er ye,
Change to day the gloom of night;
He, the Lord, shall be your glory,
God your everlasting light."

Darling, your eyes are a chocolate sea,
And though I can swim, they are ever drowning me.
Your smile is the sun, so perfect and bright,
And oh so cold is the oncoming night.

Darling, your words are a siren’s song,
Beautiful, but they’ll have me dead before long.
Your hair is a fire, is burns down your back;
The smoke swirls forth and it paints my lungs black.

Darling, your name is a tritone chord,
It sounds so hypnotic, but it leaves my ears sore.
Your touch is a cloud in the middle of the day,
Delicate soft, and yet so far away.

Darling, your heart is a priceless masterpiece,
Colorful and pure, but so very out of reach.
My heart is porcelain, so easy to shatter,
But when I tape the shards together, I’ll pretend you never mattered.

Execution
Shots in the night
The child asked at
the breakfast table
they hushed him.
It had
been snowing
the prisoners camp
was empty
but he saw bodies
on the ground
A sergeant
took his hand
led him home
said the prisoners
had moved
to another site.
Later that day
his friends
the soldiers
were silent.
The winter sun
softened
the snow.
Next day he saw
grass greening
it was spring

Such loss still remains
even through the years
our words echoing
with poignant longing
each phrase, each line
seeking to hush our fears